“Was it the years of mathletes? Or the undergrad trading competitions you won?”
One of his weirdly loyal friends eggs him on, and I bite hard into my tongue.
One trading competition. Singular. He won one of the many trading competitions he joined in his undergraduate years. I know because he told me, back when talking to me was more interesting than talkingatme or talkingaboutme.
I know he’s purposefully making a show of what he discussed with the Xion official. That’s bad enough.
What’s worse is it’s not his egotistical bluff making my temple pulse with frustration. It’s the fact that he and his friends can sit there, and giggle over their notebooks about a topic that could be saved for their downtime, while I’m rushing to note every important detail of this lesson. My professor hasn’t told them once to quiet down or pay attention.
And a week from now, when they stumble over their words during review, they’ll get an easy out. He’ll say they must be tired from their difficult classes and stressed from Xion’s grueling internship process. But if it were me, and I spoke too loud or too out-of-place during this lecture, I’d be ridiculed by the seventy-something year old behind the desk.
I grit my teeth and I rub my wrist raw against the paper again. Erasing another thing I got wrong during this lesson and will the frustration away.
Jeremiah laughs for what feels like the millionth time. My professor looks up from his own writing, blinks, and turns away.
It burns.
“I don’t want to get cocky,” Jeremiah starts, and if I could laugh without being reprimanded, I would. “But I don’t see any competition for this internship. Especially not in this program.”
“Especially not in this cohort.”
They cackle. Louder. It gets too much to bear.
Whipping my head around, I murmur, “Will you shut up? I’m trying to pay attention.”
“Ms. Mendoza.” My professor finally decides to say something. To me, of all people. “Stop distracting the boys and keep your eyes on the board. You need to know this information if you want a career in trading one day.”
The boys in question laugh. Jeremiah leans over to tap his unused pencil against my notebook and whispers, “Yeah, princess. You need to get serious if you think you have a chance in this industry. Stop distracting us.”
They laugh louder. I feel red. I see red.
My professor doesn’t say anything else.
When I’m walking out of class later, and Jeremiah bumps into me just to mumble, “Good luck. You need it.” I’m halfway to giving up. On myself, and on the attempt I’m making not to cry.
I should finish re-reading the quantitative finance interviewing guide tonight. Knowing I need to work ten times harder than other people in my program, the last thing I have to lose is time. I should dedicate every ounce of who I am to getting this internship and proving myself.
But I can’t function right now. I’m barely holding everything together, and the first thing I smell when walking into the dorm is fresh fettuccine alfredo and poured apple cider.
Locke is standing at the kitchen sink. He’s not supposed to be—he should be in class. His Tuesday lectures run late into the night, and I leave dinner for him on the counter sometimes. I don’t know if I’ve seen him cook a full meal before today.
He turns when he sees me, wiping his hands on the orange towel we just switched out for the season, and smiles. A deep indentation on his left cheek appearing when he says, “Welcome home.”
It’s two words. I’ve heard them before. But something about having him immediately be there, with two plates of dinner on the dining table, right when every part of me feels like it’s going to collapse, is too much.
I don’t even get one shoe off before my backpack thuds on the floor, and my hands come over my face. I don’t last two seconds before the burst of sobs wrack through my chest and the door closes behind me.
“Rosalie?” A deep voice calls out from the kitchen. I don’t hear his steps against the carpeted floor, but I feel his hands. They hold onto my shoulders and start rubbing shapes into my sweater. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I cry harder. The sounds leaving my throat are more chopped, less controlled, and I shout a mantra in my head.
Girls like me don’t cry.
The industry I love hasn’t shown me much kindness. It gets worse when emotions come to play. Even if it’s just a response; Even if it’s beyond my control.
I try get ahold of myself. Locke has been so kind to me so far. I don’t want him to feel obligated to comfort me. He’s become more relaxed around our apartment, and I don’t want to ruin that with awkward back pats and a half-hearted “I hope you feel better.”
When my choked sobs switch to shaky breaths, Locke speaks.
